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The ocean speaks to me in misty whispers, tells me secrets from across the atlantic… I dip my toes in the freezing water and reminisce about the times light fluctuated on your skin and extended to my spine.

There are mornings when I wake up and feel your love engulfing me with tenderness. And there are nights when I fall asleep with the memory of your fingertips resting against my hips.

My love, you are made of tiny particles of perfect moments that extend into infinity. You are stitched together with droplets of generous affection and lightness. You cradle my baffled heart with such ease, it makes its walls expand with unwavering happiness.

You are skin and bones and constant wonder and I wander in all the words you whisper to me. And when I listen closely, I can almost touch your lips with mine and draw breath from your love.

But love, most of all, you are home.

Stray hearts°

You look at me with kind eyes that stretch into the horizon, and whisper words made from the melody of your heartbeats. You look at me with feelings that flow, pouring flowers from your lips and onto mine. You stay. And I push. And you stay. And I can’t breathe. Because I look at you with the sorrow of the words you’ll never mean. I look at you with blame for all the pain you will impose on my survival. I see you on my sheets, staining them with your scent that will curl up under my spine and unearth my lungs.

I look like a fresh Lilly with dew on my petals, waking up on a Sunday morning, with life sprouting in my veins. I seem like a drowsy drizzle on the edge of your window, pulling you from your soft slumber to come play under the willow tree.

But fundamentally and down to the core, I am a drenched log, expanding from all the humidity that has caused my heart to weigh me down. I am a leap of faith that has seized to comprehend distance and dimensions. I am a sentence of jumbled up words allocating letters to the sounds they don’t belong to.

Love, I trust your eyes, your lashes clutching to them like they’re what make you thrive.

Love, I believe in the air that blows through your ribs, bringing you closer together.

I just don’t trust the time that it took for you to fall, the same time it will take you to put on your coat and walk away.

Contemporary art°

So smoke the flowers in my head into oblivion, desperately trying to turn memories into stories of pure fantasy. Tell me one more time that my bones grew thorns into your delicate skin. Draw on my back the scars of your heartbreak. Shed tears into my palms so I can turn them into a trophy and place it behind bars on a pedestal of sorts.

Darling, drain it all. Stain the sheets of our wilted petals. Fall apart on the pavement where we first realized it was all breaking into a million pieces.
And then dance.
Dance like the world owes you a lover. Dance like our love owes you empowerment. Move like your soul is made of mesmerizing ondulations.
Is that what you’re looking for?
A voice that resonates into your spine to convince you that you are ok. You are ok. You are ok.

Story of three.

I remember the time you put your tongue between my lips and told me how you’ve never kissed anyone with the taste of licorice in their mouths. You let your hands drop down my waist and said that I’m made of the bitter taste of Heaven. Your fingers traced my shoulder and my heart pounded like the fire of a million sun.

I saw in your eyes what I saw in all of my ones, the reasons why you and I could make atoms explode and recreate the universe.

I remember that morning I woke up, and your gentle embrace was holding me like a fetus that’s not ready to come out and face the world. And you told me that life could wait for us to just hide in between the folds of the waves crashing on our shore.

I felt like your body was the home I was desperately looking for, and your bones were the frame to the bed I wanted to sleep in forever.

I remember that day you took me by the hand and we ran across the fallen leaves. You broke my shell and told me that life is too short to do the same things twice. And you whispered to me that sometimes people are like memories even when they stain your sheets with wine.

I only understood that you were talking about me when I saw your slouching back running towards another fleeting flashback.

playlist:

Nym – Lesser Known Good

L’orange – The Good Shepherd

Degiheugi – Le Temps Est Bon (Remix)

 

 

Keep your eyes open

It’s all an illusion child.

The tire swing hanging from the oak tree, with your feet dangling in the air, brushing against the fragile dandelions.

The feelings that consume your insides while reading a book under the dim flashlight, tucked beneath your covers.

The mornings with snow falling from the white sky, that keep you in bed a little longer.

The smile from the stranger walking down the street with coffee in his hand.

The date you had at this cool pub and the coolness you felt having that martini and the awkwardness that took over in the car.

The curtains that you spent months picking to put in your rented apartment.

The colors of the sea driving back from a weekend away.

The Sundays that you savored, cuddled up in the arms you thought would never be different once more.

The after work drinks you had catching up, laughing out and smoking your cigarettes.

The stories. The secrets. The intimacy. The ache. The anxiety. The love. The hate. The love.

It’s all an illusion, child, of what you hoped your life would be. Of what it could have been. Of everything in between. You prayed for a novel, and all you got to be was a story. And stories end. But novels, novels they linger at the tip of your tongue, tugging at your taste buds, reminding you with every sense that you are forever changed.

It’s just an illusion. It’s all in your head.

For your eyes only do the words alternate and the memories transform. Just for you, does the illusion exist. It eats you up, chews you to oblivion then throws you on the pavement for the poor unfortunate souls to feast.

It is simply an illusion.

Catch a falling star

There are stars and there are galaxies and there are people in between tucking at my limbs.

There are planets and there are black holes and there’s a feeling inside of me that burns.

There are lullabies and melodies and songs and notes all intertwined making no sense at all.

And then there is you, beautiful as you are standing in a golden field of dancing daffodils, looking at me with those big eyes, picking at the scabs of my soul.

I see you, smiling in a daze, sparkles in your eyes, a flashback of memories that are not mine. And you twirl in my mind fluent as ever, growing roots in my skin.

Try as I may, I am always driven towards stars, and you my dear are the shooting star of the century and grasping at your trail feels so close. With star dust at your fingertips, trembling over the atmosphere, burning bright to fall into the night sky.

I want you to know, terribly so, that you are warmth and light lost in radiance, and you sound just as a sunny October morning feels.

Internal dialogues – Part I

She’s sunken in the ottoman in her friend’s living room, staring up in a daze. She has a lot to say. Of course she does, she always does. She has opinions about everything from fire ants to putting chipotle in green salads.

“What’s wrong with her?

  • Nothing! Don’t be an idiot!”

When Nadia was younger, she tried to tell her mom that she thought buildings shouldn’t be over 5 stories high because neighbors would be strangers, and what’s the point of having a neighbor?! But her mom was late for work? She tried to run after her… but her mom was always late for something…

“What do you mean?! Look at her! She’s so…

  • Don’t say it.”

All was fine with the world. Because Nadia read and drew and wrote. And she thought that that if she did all of that, then she would be able to hold her tongue… but boy was she mistaken. If anything her case grew worse! With all of the imagination she’s cultivated in her brain, words started spilling out like a serious case of chronic vomiting.

By the time she was 11, she went to a new school. She met new people. And she thought, oh so foolishly, that she could find someone who would understand her. Once she told this girl in class, that she thought about what would happen if firecrackers were put in a microwave. I mean obviously she knew it was a bad idea, but doesn’t it make you wonder nonetheless!?

Well, rumors travel fast in a small catholic school. And wouldn’t you know it, soon enough, Nadia started a continuous monologue for the remainder of her school experience.

“Maybe she had bad spicy food last night….

  • Does she eat spicy food?”

When she was 13, Nadia got bored with writing and painting. She got bored with school and mothers. So she thought about music… what if musical notes can deliver your thoughts from their self-inflicted prison?! So she learnt how to play the violin. And the violin started to feel like a nice familiar friend who didn’t care if she thought about whether the sea was reflecting the colors in the sky or was it the sky reflecting the colors of the galaxies.

But the violin came with its own friend. A man. A man that made her believe that the only way she could stay friends with the violin, was if she would be friends with him.

She really wanted to stay friends with the violin.

“Diana, I really think we should take her to the hospital.”

When she was 15, she realized that she started to hate the violin. And she couldn’t understand why. And then she told her parents that she didn’t want to be friends with the violin and the man anymore. And her parents did nothing. Her parents  didn’t ask. And the violin and the man were gone. But her thoughts festered.

“For what?! A bad case of the bafflement?!”

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